Ocean Wide
by grandSolovey
Summary: There are many paths and many ends that lie before man, but only one can ultimately be chosen — and with one choice alone can the lives of many others be forever altered.


Cold. It was always cold.

"Mr. Rowland?"

"Yes."

It was to be expected, and yet he wondered how he had never noticed before.

"My, you're late—I was beginning to think you might not come at all."

"I apologize," the younger man mumbled shortly, bowing his head.

The chill of the night air was nothing compared to the chill he knew he would find within that house.

"Ah, well, it can't be helped. I suppose I am lucky you even arrived tonight."

"No. It's my fault."

It was nothing compared to the chill of his arms.

The older man gave a quiet laugh. "If you insist, my boy."

He said nothing in response, only ducking his head lower and clutching the bag in his hands.

"Where are your glasses?"

One of his hands loosened its grip on the bag, and instinctively touched the breast of his coat.

"I can see fine without them."

"I doubt that," was the reply, as the other delicately traced a gloved hand along the line of his jaw.

He shivered. It was always so cold.

"I—I brought you the paper—"

"Did you, now?" he said pleasantly, retreating a bit and smiling warmly. "Excellent. I suppose that's why you were late, hm?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

"Of course." With another laugh, he reached out to the younger man, gently pulling him inside. "Well, then—do come in out of the cold."

"Yes, Mr. Quenby."

* * *

It had become Mr. Quenby's nightly custom to read the paper as he was serviced, a custom which Arthur Rowland would obediently indulge. He would indulge it this night just as he would any other night, and this night truly would become just like any other—the room was just as red, crimson finery draping the walls and furniture; it was just as silent, sans the quiet rustling of the paper and the soft, wet noise of Arthur's mouth; and, of course, it was just as cold.

"Oh, Mr. Rowland—would you believe this? Mr. Palmer and Miss Catherine Lanston, to be wed by the end of this week…"

Arthur made no response other than tightening his grip at the base of Mr. Quenby's cock, drawing a line with his tongue along its underside.

"I'm sure it will be a beautiful ceremony. Don't you agree?"

He teased the very tip for a bit before swirling his tongue over the head, lightly flicking over his slit.

"But, then again… I suppose Mr. Palmer has fallen quite out of your favor by now, hasn't he?"

There was a soft laugh, and another rustle. Arthur wrapped his lips around him and began to suck.

"Ah, perhaps this will maintain a bit more of your interest—Miss Aline Walker, at only the tender age of nineteen…"

He slowly moved his head downwards, carefully pressing his tongue against him as he went, and sucked harder as he pulled back up.

"…Deceased, as the result of quite a nasty fall." Arthur could hear the smirk on his lips enter his voice. "Oh, my—and it appears to be suicide. Had you any idea of such an inclination in the poor girl?"

His head bobbed up for air, and he let out a soft moan as his hands continued the work of his mouth.

"No—how silly of me to ask. You never truly intended to follow through with that engagement, did you?"

With that, Mr. Quenby leaned forward, sliding two still-gloved fingers under Arthur's chin and tilting his head up.

"I'm the only one you need, after all."

Arthur trembled, and his hands stilled. The only reply he could muster was a quiet whimper.

"Up," Mr. Quenby ordered, leaning back and patting beside him on the bed. "I'm growing impatient."

He did as he was told, carefully climbing onto the bed and settling in Mr. Quenby's lap. His hands continued to shake as he began to undress him.

"There's no need for that." Mr. Quenby's smile was dry as he pushed Arthur's hands back down to his sides. "Did I not just tell you that I was becoming impatient?"

Arthur's face flushed, and he quickly looked down. "M-my apologies," he stammered under his breath."

To that, Mr. Quenby lifted a hand to Arthur's chin again, lifting his face once more.

"Why aren't you wearing them?"

Arthur shivered under his stare, and tried to look away. "You—you wouldn't like it if I were."

Mr. Quenby's eyes narrowed as he gave a pleasant laugh. "And who are you to presume what I might _like_ or _dislike?_"

He winced, recoiling at the laugh. "I… I'm sorry…"

"Those glasses were my gift to you, you know. Are you trying to say that you don't appreciate my gift?"

"N-no, I—" Arthur, still reluctant, returned his gaze to meet Mr. Quenby's. "Of course I do. They… They changed my life… Without them, I—"

"You never would have found your way to me."

As Mr. Quenby's words sank into his consciousness, Arthur caught sight of a small, metallic glint in his hands. He felt the last of his warmth fade from his being.

"And that, I believe, is a suitable reward for the ordeals you have faced thus far—suitable enough for a man like you, in any case."

A pair of cold, gloved hands slid the frames onto Arthur's face—hands that were now just as cold as his own.

"Perhaps you should show a little more _gratitude._"

A small, slight smirk tugged at the corner of Arthur's lips as he slowly pushed Mr. Quenby back onto the bed. "Perhaps I should."

Mr. Quenby laughed again, offering no resistance, and lay back with his arms spread-eagled. "That's more like it."

"I have no one to thank but you, after all." Arthur's smirk spread into a grin as he unfastened his belt, and he reached behind him to touch Mr. Quenby again. "Without your beneficence, things never could have ended like this."

At that, Mr. Quenby's light smile darkened. "Oh?"

As if in stark contrast, Arthur's own expression seemed to have a cheerful lilt. "Oh."

It was then that Arthur pulled a large knife from beneath his belt, kept previously unseen by his shirt, and proceeded to slam it through Mr. Quenby's throat.

* * *

As a general rule, Henry Palmer was not a man who believed in fate.

This was not to say that he did not believe that the world could be driven by mysterious forces, of course. He was simply a man who preferred to think that people, rather than any Powers That May Be, determined their own destinies—that people alone were responsible for choosing their path in life.

As such, when the young girl came sobbing to his door, note clutched in hand, it was not any force of fate that brought him to seek its author, but his own determination.

Henry found him at the shipyard, waiting to board. He hadn't a moment to spare.

"_Arthur!_"

At the sound of his name, the boy wheeled around to face Henry—wheeled, for the metal box in his hand appeared to carry some significant momentum as it swung with his movement. A look of astonishment came over his face for all of a moment before fading back into cool impassivity.

"Arthur—" Henry didn't even stop to catch his breath as he ran to meet Arthur, and he grasped at the boy's shoulder as soon as he was within arm's length of him. "There you are—"

But the boy's only response was to snatch himself away, stepping back and looking coldly at him. Henry realized with a start that he was wearing a pair of glasses, eerily similar to…

"I did not expect you to come after me."

Henry could only stare in disbelief. "What else could I have done?"

"Shouldn't you be tending to Catherine?"

The mention of her name stung. "She worries as well. Elizabeth is _beside_ herself—"

"She cannot worry as you worry," Arthur interrupted, his gaze oddly penetrating, "for she does not know what you know. She has not known _me_ as you have, so what care could she possibly have?"

"Not for you, but _her._" With a shaking hand, Henry withdrew the crumpled note from his breast pocket. "Did you truly think _this_ would escape my attention?"

Arthur hesitated to reply. "I did not expect you to learn of it so soon, no."

"Then what _did_ you expect?"

A shadow of doubt seemed to briefly flicker across Arthur's features, but it was gone by the time he answered. "By the time you discovered it, I expected to be across the ocean." He paused as the flicker returned. "Or, perhaps, to be in ashes."

"Ashes?" At that, Henry's own expression hardened. "Then—you did see Quenby last night."

Arthur's grip on the metal box's handle tightened. "I might have."

"Then, the fire…"

"I had left by the time the building burned." His tone was unnaturally even. "But since you seem to know of it so well, tell me—were there any victims in the blaze?"

Henry found it difficult to keep his own voice just as even, but he tried as best he could. "One body was found amongst the cinders. It was missing its head."

"I see." The faintest of smiles turned the corners of Arthur's lips. "Then all is as it should be."

"What did you _do?_"

"Me?" The false smile shifted to an expression of similarly false surprise. "I did what had to be done. That is all."

Everything about him—his words, his manner of speaking, the tiny unconscious gestures and little expressions he made and wore—all of them were just as Henry remembered, all exactly the same, and yet… As he watched Arthur now, he could distinctly discern a great, vast _darkness_ behind them, as though this youth had been stained with blood. The realization that this must not have been far from the case made his stomach turn.

"Arthur—"

"You know," he interrupted again, voice regaining that darkly cheerful lilt, "there are many ways to slay a monster, but only one to ensure that he is truly powerless." As he spoke, he shifted the box to hold its handle with both hands. For the first time, Henry noticed he was wearing gloves of a strangely familiar hue. "One must cut off his head and hide it far, far away, where he cannot find it again."

Henry found himself staring at the box, and realized that whatever blood had stained Arthur's hands must surely be pooling within it.

"No, Arthur—" It took more effort than he would have suspected to tear his eyes away from that box. "Don't you understand? You have not _slain_ a monster, but rather _become_ him!"

"And _you_ are one to speak?" Arthur snapped, suddenly harsh. "Tell me, Mr. Palmer, what have you done to stop this from happening?"

"What have _I_ done?" he repeated, dumbfounded. "You would place the blame for this on _me?_ It was not I who drove you to set fire to that house, Arthur, nor did I drive you to _murder—!_"

"But you did, for I was left with no other choice." The cool impassivity seemed to be breaking into a quiet rage. "When that man beat me bloody, where were you to ease my pain?"

"What are you talking about?" he answered, incredulous. "You came to me, did you not? I took you into my home, I _cared_ for you—"

"And yet it was ultimately _her_ breast you chose to lay your head upon," said Arthur, his tone softening, "not mine. But I suppose that is to be expected; she is your fiancée, after all."

At this point, Henry was nearly pleading. "Arthur…"

But he only continued. "Apart from that, was it not also within your power to keep me from seeing him? Was it not within your power to keep me from having ever _met_ him?"

"No, Arthur—" How could he make such a claim? "How could I have any power over your actions?"

"You _chose_ not to stop me, not to keep me from falling further into his design." The cold sharpness of his voice seemed to strike Henry through to his very core. "You _chose_ to play further into his game, to allow him to indulge you with my body and this naïve heart. For that alone…"

Arthur's eyes strayed downward, and he took the box in one hand to gesture to himself—all of himself, dressed in mourning black, the gloves of his predecessor, and glasses that only served to sharpen the darkness behind his eyes, eyes that had once known naught of the world's troubles.

"I am now this."

For a moment, Henry could not speak. "But—Arthur, you cannot deny that _you_ have had no choice in this matter… You cannot deny that there is no choice even now."

"Now?" He slightly raised an eyebrow. "Now is far too late. No choice can alter what has been done."

"Not what _has been_ done, but what _can be_ done!" Henry's voice shook with desperation. "It doesn't have to end like this, Arthur!"

"How else _can_ it end?"

It was a surprisingly good question. Once the investigation into the fire was complete, surely Arthur would not be able to escape suspicion—and even if he could, even if all else was well, there was still Catherine.

It was too good a question, and Henry did not know how to respond, except to close the distance between them and pull Arthur into a tight embrace.

He felt the other man stiffen and freeze in his arms.

— _Perhaps it is not too late after all._

— **_The threads of Fate have already been pulled._**

Arthur did not protest for some time, nor did he make any effort to return the embrace.

"Mr. Palmer, I kindly ask that you release me at once."

That tone struck him once again, and Henry was powerless to do anything but comply. He withdrew from Arthur, taking a cautious step back. "Arthur, please…"

"I will be guided by your whims no longer, Mr. Palmer. Haven't you realized that by now?"

But at that, Henry could only feel a spike of anger. His hand started to clench into a fist, and he suddenly recalled the note still clutched in it. "May you no longer be guided by my whims, but what of _hers?_"

Arthur's brow slightly furrowed, as if in confusion. "Hers?"

"You know damned well who I mean," Henry growled. "What about _Elizabeth?_"

Another flicker of humanity stole across Arthur's face, and though it was but a flicker, it seemed to linger longer than the others had.

But, like the others, it was but a flicker. "Let her weep for her brother," he said quietly, "for he perished in the flames. But I shall not be so easily moved."

Another chill crawled up Henry's spine, as he realized the boy he once knew—too passionately, perhaps—was forever gone.

"This is the path you chose, Mr. Palmer. If this end does not satisfy you, then you've naught but yourself to blame."

To that, Henry could say nothing. By now, there truly was nothing he could do to stop this.

A long silence passed before Arthur turned to leave. "I must be going," he said distantly. "The ship is bound to leave soon, and there is more yet that needs to be done."

"Arthur…"

He turned his head just enough to look back at Henry. There was a light smile on his face—a smile that had once set Henry's heart at ease, but now only filled him with despair.

"Farewell, Mr. Palmer. Know that none shall ever love you as I have."

Arthur Rowland left him without another word, and Henry Palmer knew that he would never see him again.

* * *

_Ending № 31/31_

_... END_


End file.
